


Wild Horses

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:33:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Not sure if what, he's decided he needs to make our lives more interesting? To play the Ronon-version of my sister's favorite game: gimme what I want, or I'll turn blue, I will, I will?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild Horses

They're halfway through their run when John abruptly slows and then stops, groping for his water-bottle with numb fingers. He _hates_ running.

His throat aches, but he still manages a good few swallows. Ronon isn't panting, of course, leaning casually against the far wall. He's watching the windows.

"You wanna let me know what's going on?"

John's the first to admit he's not good at reading body-language. It's never been a necessary skill, since charm and his ability to bullshit have gotten him a lot farther than understanding ever has—there's too much responsibility that comes with knowing.

But Ronon is, surprisingly, easy to read. The slight tension of his shoulders is surprise, the tilt of his jaw—away from John, presenting him with a scrabbly beard and his ear—a dismissal.

"Uh huh," he drawls. "That's real informative."

Ronon doesn't move.

Another swallow of water and John tucks the bottle back against his waist. His legs ache, twinges of pain running up and down his shins. "Mostly I guess I want to know if it was voluntary. This not-speaking thing. Because if it is, well, that's your business. But if it's not, then maybe we can do something to help."

John takes off, purposefully looking straight ahead as he loses himself in the pound of his feet, the ache of a body that hates the best method he has of staying in shape.

Ronon won't be forced or hurried. John knows better than to try.

* * *

John likes being up early. Atlantis is always quiet, then, the constant hum fading away into something like bird-song, heralding the sun's arrival. The coffee is freshest around five and the kitchen staff has learned to take a break when their boss shows up, slipping away for their own coffee or smoke-breaks while John leans his elbows against the window and studies the morning sky.

Weather's not important here, what with 'jumpers that don't get knocked around by wind and 'gates that can take them to all kinds of climates in the blink of an eye, but some habits die hard. John's spent most of his adult life hobbled by weather's whims and he's learned to read her at a glance.

"It's gonna rain this afternoon," he says, the words syrupy and slow. "Gentle stuff, though. Warm."

Ronon's elbow is nearly twice the size of John's, but it rests against his almost delicately, the darker skin flushed with younger, headier life. A tablet is placed on the sill, propped up so they can both see.

 _I like rain_ is typed out. It's not as quick as even John's own hen-peck typing, but it's not bad. Rodney had taught both Ronon and Teyla the basics of English, grumpily ensuring they too can be part of hundreds of email messages that get sent out a day. A disconcertingly—or maybe depressingly—large number of them come from John's header.

"I know you do, buddy. Maybe we'll go out later today. Tell the mission to go hang and just play hooky."

_I don't know what 'hukey' means._

"Liar," John teases. He bumps his arm more firmly into Ronon's. "You know exactly what that means."

Ronon's grin is surprisingly boyish, despite the tangle of beard around it. John wants to shave it off, always has: he wants to see how smooth and young Ronon is without the trappings of adulthood. He wants Ronon to shave as much as he does, or at least half as much, so Ronon will stop teasing him about the damned straight razor he uses, the only thing that can produce a close-enough cut.

"Are you okay?"

Ronon looks out the window, studying the way the clouds bunch together, swirled by a playful wind. It's not dark yet, although it will be, sunrise filtering through with pink and gold highlights.

He taps slowly, fingers turning the screen a rainbow of colors. _It doesn't bother me._

John nods, not ready to call him on the lie. Not yet.

* * *

"Is this a new game he's playing?" Rodney demands, spooning up not-yak stew with more enthusiasm than the whole rest of the mess, combined. "Something designed to make geniuses go insane? Is he still mad at me that I stole the last pudding cup?"

John twirls the fork in his hand, watching the way the light catches the tines. To be honest, he's surprised Rodney noticed at all, let alone a bare week after John did. Although, fair’s fair, Ronon doesn’t ‘hang out’ with anybody but John and sometimes maybe Lorne. And Rodney talks enough for three.

"Sheppard?"

"I'm not sure."

"Not sure if what, he's decided he needs to make our lives more interesting? To play the Ronon-version of my sister's favorite game: gimme what I want, or I'll turn blue, I will, I will?"

John chuckles. "I can't see Ronon acting like a little girl."

"That's because _you're_ sleeping with him," Rodney fires back, voice low enough that John can only just barely hear him. "I'd be deeply disgusting if you did. Is something wrong?"

The fork stills. "Why would do you think something's wrong?"

"You're twice as laconic as usual," Rodney deadpans, "which in Sheppard-speak means you're worried enough to be frantic. So? Is something wrong?"

"I'm not sure. It started after P29-MMX, but..."

"Right, the one with the freaky priest guys who took us all aside and whispered private lessons in our oh-so-eager ears." Rodney still bitches about that mission, although he won't say what the priest told him. None of them have shared their 'gifts' and not because the priest looked grave and sorrowful when listing the fabled repercussions of those who had.

John already knows he's found home. He doesn't need a crazy old guy who smells of fermented garlic to tell him that.

"Which means," Rodney continues, "that we have no idea if Ronon's taken holy vows or something equally ludicrous, or if it's—"

"Something he just isn't fighting," John finishes. That's the dilemma. Nobody makes Ronon do what he doesn't want to do. He'll compromise, sure, but there's always a sense of return when he does -- it's a _compromise_ , not an acquiescence. If Ronon isn't getting something out of it, then he'd find ways around it, starting with bugging John and ending with him camping out in Rodney's room and dogging his every move until Rodney's so annoyed he makes _everyone_ work on the problem.

"He's not going to just ask. Uh, I mean." Rodney still flushes more than any grown man John's ever met. It's still pretty, too. "He's not just going to let us know he needs help. Ronon doesn't ask— _request_ —help."

No, he doesn't. Not unless he's done everything he can do himself. Sighing through his nose, John pushes his tray away. "Take care of this? I got Keller to give him an extra scan and I want to go see if she's got the results."

"Oh, yes, because now astrophysicist and genius means _busboy,"_ he snaps, pulling the tray closer.

* * *

John's lounging on the bed when Ronon finally comes home for the evening, idly flipping through a magazine. He's concentrating so hard that he starts, surprised, when Ronon tugs the glossy pages right through his fingers, ostentatiously eying the cover.

The upside down cover. "So, there's a reason I was never in black ops."

Ronon smirks; he's normally expressive in private, but the last few days have seen a public awakening as well. John's come across several people, stunned and walking dizzily, who have been subjected to Ronon's sudden smiles. Or a few who had been patted on the shoulder that were probably digging out their Icy Hot as soon as they had a free moment. 

He started noticing it earlier, actually, but it’s only now, a few days after talking to Keller, that it’s starting to make sense.

Scooping up the tablet, Ronon slumps down so his back is laying heavily on John's raised knees. It's not comfortable, but John doesn't do more than grunt, shifting his feet to support his legs. _Did they ever try to recruit you?_ A raised eyebrow expresses what bland words on a page can't.

John bumps his leg, 'hitting' Ronon in the shoulder. "Can I see it?"

_You figured it out._

"I guessed a while ago. You're not exactly a monk," he explains, leering. Ronon huffs a silent laugh, eyes crinkling. It's a damned good look. "I got Keller to confirm it, though. Which you knew."

For answer, Ronon opens his left hand to hold up a small blue object. It looks like a pebble, although it's a lot shinier than any piece of rock John's ever seen. It's definitely _rock_ , though, not some strange silicate or a gem polished to a luster. There's something very... rock-like about it.

Ronon closes his fist again. _I like it._

Snagging a dred, John rubs his thumb back and forth. "You gonna keep it forever?" He could add how much he loves hearing Ronon groan; the way his voice goes light and teasing whenever he's disobeying one of John's orders; the way it goes guttural and husky when he's _giving_ John an order, particularly the kind that never are, no matter how eagerly John wants to comply. He could say all that and probably more, halting and awkward.

He doesn't. He just meets Ronon's eyes.

 _No,_ Ronon types without looking. It comes out 'mno' but John's pretty sure that's a typo; it's hard to touch-type on a screen.

"Okie-dokie," John says and rescues his magazine, flipping it right-side-up. 

The tablet is abruptly thrust into his face, blocking a lovely article about women golfers and how they perfect their swing. _But you could try to make me scream,_ glows at him, black on blue-tinted white.

Slowly, John starts to smile. "I always did like a challenge," he says, and when he leans forward, it's not the tablet he touches.


End file.
